


The Very Best of Us

by bravevesperian



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: But only classic fairytale levels of somnophilia., M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 18:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravevesperian/pseuds/bravevesperian
Summary: Biggs, the third of his name, master of the Garlond Ironworks has had a dream all his life. Living in a broken world, he dreams of its salvation-- but beneath that, of a beautiful prince sleeping in an ancient tower.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright I have no idea what I'm doing here, but my favorite stories are 'modern' fairytales and ALL of Biggs III's writing and mention of G'raha sound like he was damned near infatuated with him soooo. 
> 
> I had to write it. I'm compelled. Of course, this tale ends in tragedy. Maybe I'll actually finish something for once.

Breaching the doors was only the first step. The glorious beginning of the end, as it were. The men of the Garlond Ironworks laughed and drank around a campfire, a tiny pinprick of light in the ever encroaching darkness of the landscape of Mor Dhona and what was once Saint Coinach's Find or at least-- close enough. Their party camped on the edge of the Syrcus Trench, celebrating their one small victory with a raucous night. There was no sense in being conservative for them. They lived on the brink, knowing that their world was in its death throes. A wasteland that could not be saved, an empty yawning maw of guaranteed oblivion. And that was just the normal, day-to-day stuff. 

Biggs the third had inherited his inheritance from big minds. He had lived his childhood cleaving to the books that they could save, the histories that they could protect. It was strange to some to think that engineers-- men covered in the oil and grease of their hard work-- were also selfmade historians. They honored a tradition, they said: And Biggs' father had passed the story to him in whispers at night from the time the boy could walk. 

The tale was an epic one, arching over the golden age that the Seventh Astral Era had seemed to him in his mind's eye in comparison to the constant terror and pain that the people lived in in the aftermath of the Garlean Empire's super weapon. They spoke of a hero-- and a prince possessed of infinite knowledge locked away in a crystal tomb within the haunting megalith that was the Crystal Tower. 

Biggs was a hulking man who stood head and shoulders over most of the others in his merry band. He was more brusque than the man from whom he had inherited his name and legacy; a bit more rough around the edges-- but he carried the same spirit of wonder and adventure and a singular dream and goal: To wake the sleeping boy from his long slumber. 

He'd had a few tankards of ale, but had mostly refrained from all of the merrymaking. For Biggs, it was a solemn and serious day that had him staring what he thought to be the impossible in the face. He sat alone near the edge of the yawning chasm, the eroded remnants of the original defense system behind him. Even the stones he sat upon he knew had been laid by the ancient Allagan Empire, and feeling the surface brought him _closer_. By his singular lantern he looked at the worn tome he had carried with him from childhood, full of his predecessor's first hand account of the events that transpired and led to the Crystal Tower's second long sleep. There, he paused where he always did: at the page that bore the painted visage of the young man said to sleep within.

G'raha Tia stared up at him from the page in painted detail, vivid color dimmed only slightly by the age of the page. Eyes and hair the color of ruby stood out in stark contrast from the matte cream of the paper, his delicate features frozen in a look of cherubic mischief. Though the image's eyes were fixed on the middle distance, Biggs always felt as though he were staring right at him-- piercing directly into his soul. 

He tightened his grip on the book, fingertips brushing lightly over the words and images he had lingered on for so long. When the world was cruel, he had G'raha Tia-- and the promise of a mystical prince waiting to be awakened from his sleep-- to keep him going. Biggs wasn't sure when his altruistic hope had become a personal obsession that some would say bordered on dark, but that was what it was. He would wake G'raha Tia. He would see his prince to the future, no matter what it took. 

That was why he found himself wandering ahead, past the breached doors now thrown wide-- despite the fact that he was the one who had said they must heed the dangers of the tower and take a force inside-- with well-laid plans, with the might of their strongest. But it was Biggs' life work and like a siren song, something that he couldn't explain pulled him in. It was... Him. He knew it then as he stood, awestruck and dumb in the entryway. Though the crystal gave off its own light to an extent, it still slept, and everything was washed in only the softest blue glow. The atmosphere alone was enough to send shivers up his spine. It was even more chilling when he stepped forward and found that the many small crystals that lined the path up a massive staircase lit for him as he approached. Enraptured, he followed them and climbed, up, up, up-- until the stone gave way to stairs of pure crystal, and then those to plush red carpet that by all means ought to have been decayed beyond recognition. 

He'd read about the tower's self-sustaining capabilities. Part of him wondered if there was still hope-- if the power of the Crystal Tower alone could save their dying world. But that wasn't something he could entertain, not really. The land was starved of aether. That was not something that could be so easily fixed. The Engineer-come-historian shook himself once more from his absent thoughts as he followed the path to another room, just above the biggest solid crystal he'd ever seen. The staircase had wound round and round it, pulsing with a dim light like a heartbeat. 

Biggs paused at the doors, feeling suddenly a true chill come over him-- as if he were intruding upon ground that a man of his station ought not to. This was the place of Emperors, of holy beings who had, through awful deeds, transcended humanity. That was when he was certain he heard a voice. Not clear enough to make out the words, but the warm, dreamy timbre drew him closer. He raised one large hand and pressed against the doors, expecting resistance-- only to have them fall away as though on the most well-oiled of hinges. 

It was inside that he found it: a cocoon of light and _him_ in the center of it all. 

Beneath the veil of light, the man-- who hardly looked the age he must be-- looked as though he were sleeping, his hands folded neatly, face relaxed. The voice he'd heard before echoed again suddenly, unintelligible until-- 

“_Who's_...?”

On the far wall was a crystal array, some kind of portal or viewing device or both-- Biggs couldn't make sense of it at first, but that was for later. No, now he finally had before him the source of his fixation. He moved closer then, his steps feeling clunky and heavy and _filthy_ as he dared to tread upon the holy. holy, Holy--

His broad shoulders enunciated the deep breath he took as he reached out, hand trembling as it touched the light that seemed to encase him. _Him_. It felt no different from touching glass or crystal, a solid barrier that kept him from reaching out to the face he'd gazed upon on the pages of books for so long. Biggs took a moment to redress the situation and looked around, the logical mind of an engineer whirring into motion. 

There was the platform itself, slender and dark, deepest marbled blue with gold-gilded trappings. He took a moment to note that the floor in this room was darker than any of the other crystal he'd seen on his way up but that hardly mattered. Everything inside was crystal and gold, crystal and gold save for him: perfectly frozen like a beautiful, hyper-realistic statue. After a few moments of cataloging the state of the apparatus he noticed something standing betwixt the golden framework-- almost like a key it seemed, all bronzed and set with a piece of white Auracite in the heart of its ornamented topper. 

Biggs pursed his lips, knowing that he needed to research this. That he needed to run tests and do calculations and be certain that he wouldn't be mucking up systems-- but the sound of that soft, dulcet voice muttering in his sleep pulled him in. The man straightened up, set his jaw and reached out, pulling the staff from where it was sunk into the apparatus. 

A soft hissing sound filled the room as the golden prongs surrounding the platform shifted and sank into the floor, and with a sudden sense of silence, the veil of light flickered and vanished. Biggs watched the platform beneath the sleeping prince began to shift to hide itself away like the metal before it, and he moved in a moment of panic to stop him from falling. 

G'raha Tia was soft and warm, and still sleeping like a little babe as he scooped him up into his arms. Next to a Roegadyn man of his stature, the Miqo'te seemed so small and frail. His head fit neatly into the crook of Biggs' arm, and he was sure looking at him that he could have shattered him. Had he awoken him improperly? Had he ruined everything? 

But a moment later, G'raha took a deep breath, and his eyes opened though only for a few moments. He muttered another unintelligible thing and then dropped back into sleep. Biggs could only imagine that waking up out of stasis was a trying thing. Unsure of what else to do, he shuffled over to the stairs before the odd portal, all signs of the contraption that G'raha had been asleep in now hidden by the intricately decorated floor. He sank down and sat on the platform at the top of the little staircase, holding the prince from his childhood fairy tales like a precious doll. 

The painting, though skillfully rendered, had done him little justice. 

It was crass of him. Selfish. Even downright foul-- but Biggs could not help reaching out, brushing his fingertips over the delicate curve of his jaw, the perfect angle of his nose-- the unimaginably soft pout of his lips. Finally, he ventured rather guiltily to gently touch his ears, warm and twitching softly at the sensation. He worried again then-- what if he didn't wake up? 

“G'raha Tia... please. Eorzea-- nay, all of Hydaelyn has need of you.” Biggs' own voice sounded rough and terrible to him, absolutely too rough to even be near a man like this. 

There was no response. He slept on heavily in his arms, and the anxiety continued to wear on. His men were going to hang him for this. This was against their scientific method-- against everything. Biggs remembered the stories he'd grown up on, mostly true-- but he'd always loved the damned fairytales. The one of the princess in an enchanted sleep, awakened by true love's kiss burned in his mind and he groaned internally. He was asleep. What could it hurt?

With his knee and the floor to support him, he managed to wiggle a hand free and used it to gently tilt G'raha Tia's sweet, sleeping face upwards just a bit. Biggs cursed himself, and the Twelve even as he leaned in and very gently, chaste and warm-- pressed his lips to the Miqo'te's. 

He hovered there, the electric, sweet sensation of such intimacy leaving him a bit befuddled, even as ruby eyes shot open, bright and alert-- and perturbed. 

“What--? What's happening? Where am I? Why... why am I awake? Wait... do I... Do I know you? You remind me of someone.” 

“'Tis truly you, G'raha Tia. By the gods-- Finally, after all we went through to get here.” Biggs found himself nearly at a loss for words altogether. 

“Ah, Biggs? Right? But... you seem altogether different. No... it shouldn't be possible.” G'raha muttered to himself and began to test his limbs. He had begun to flush a deep pink at the rather tender and intimate way he was being cradled. 

“Aye, Biggs is my name, but I reckon I'm a fair bit different from the one you knew. He was my well, Great Grand father. I'm the head of the Garlond Ironworks. Highness, you've slept through a great deal, including another Calamity.” 

“Please don't-- I'm. I am only barely anything close to... to _that_. There is no need for lofty titles, I'll not hear of it.” Biggs nearly regretted having to let him go, let him stand on his own feet. His leg had fallen asleep at some point, and he tried not to show any limp when he straightened up himself. 

Standing together, he found that G'raha was even smaller than he'd seemed. He had to crane his head back to look up at him. He was small, even for a Miqo'te. 

“Aye, fair enough. It's just that you've always been presented as some lost prince in the books. We've held the stories in high regard. For an age.” 

Again G'raha flushed, looking around the room. He ambled aimlessly over to the stave that Biggs had removed from the apparatus and lifted it up. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, and then experimentally tapped it on the floor. In an instant, light and life returned to the tower, blazing forth like a beacon across the devastated landscape of Mor Dhona. There was deafening sound for a moment as the main functions whirred to life, and then it settled to a pleasant, barely audible hum. 

G'raha looked surprised, and then pleased with himself. He gave a small nod, barely hiding a smirk. 

“Ah, there we are. While I slept I was able to dream... much and more I saw may have been what came to pass. I'm afraid I was not altogether familiar with the Tower's capabilities when I sealed it.” He admitted, turning towards the portal that had now flashed to life, showing a moving record of countless events passing by too quickly for Biggs to parse what any of it was. 

G'raha had closed his eyes, deep in thought and Biggs, though he was the more intimidating presence in the room, had gone terribly soft-- not wanting to interrupt. After several long moments the Miqo'te hummed and the hint of a smirk widened into a full-on mischievous smile. 

“Ah, you're the little boy. The one who fancied the story of the princess in the tower. I remember you.” 

Biggs spluttered, his jaw slightly unhinged as G'raha turned and faced him, leaning slightly on the staff. 

“Well-- that's uh. I reckon uh-- maybe--”

“Yes, yes, that's _right_\-- I was dreaming of someone saying my name. So soft, so very, very tender. It was you, holding some dusty old book,” He mused. 

“Well perhaps I said it out loud once'r twice,” He answered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“Thank you.” G'raha responded simply. 

“For wha?” Biggs asked, dumbfounded. 

G'raha turned away again, waving the staff and gesturing at the portal as he spoke, clearly doing _something_ though Biggs couldn't make sense of what. 

“I didn't think I would be aware of anything while I slept. T'wasn't much. All of it is hazy and blends together, though I was in a sense somehow absorbing information, downloading it from the Tower's systems as I dreamed. Tis not easily accessible but I imagine I already know much of what has happened in the ages that have passed. You came here for more than just your childhood curiosity, no? You have a plan. I would see it to its fruition.” 

The ache of nostalgia and the strange, nearly deranged infatuation he'd grown for the prince in his tower was pushed aside for the moment. Now was the time to be Biggs the third, head of the Garlond Ironworks. He took a deep breath and nodded. 

“After you went to sleep, your colleagues encountered creatures capable of both space and time travel. Space is easy enough-- the Allagans had begun to master that, with the launching of Dalamud. But time? That is something altogether different. We believe the key rests with the primal Alexander... and here, with the Emperor's Throne.” 

G'raha listened, his expression distant as he absorbed the information. He had but one question. “Then... the Scions and the Warrior of Light...”

“Dead, sir. I'm afraid. The calamity... took them all.” Biggs said slowly. 

Though he kept his composure, G'raha's ears drooped visibly. Of course-- no normal person could be expected to survive for two hundred years, but Lousiox's magicks had prepared the Scions for longevity far outclassing that of the typical mortal. Part of him had hoped to see them on the other side, still fighting the good fight. 

“All of them...” He echoed weakly. 

“Unfortunately.” Biggs answered. 

“We must needs chart our course. I will need books. First hand accounts of the Warrior of Light's path.” He stated. 

“That may be easier said than done—but I will _see_ it done. Personally if I must.” 

“My thanks.” The work was only just beginning. He knew this. “For now, though-- I could do with a bath and something warmer.” He gestured vaguely at his own clothing, then turned and looked towards the hallway from whence Biggs had come. His ears twitched. 

“Ah?” 

No sooner had he spoken than the door flew open, and a man and woman dressed in Ironworks uniform rushed in, looking relieved. One turned and shouted down the echoing staircase. “He's here! We found him. All's well, come quick!” 

The privacy of their moment shattered, G'raha chuckled to himself and wandered over to stand with Biggs. “My friend, you seem to have neglected to keep your comrades informed. You came to seek me all on your own, didn't you?” 

“Friend...?” They'd only just met-- but if G'raha had watched him just as he'd longed to meet him-- were they not already acquainted? The thought warmed him more than the ale he'd had around the campfire. More than anything he could think of. 

“Aye, tis what I said.” G'raha answered cheekily. “Come, let us share what we know.” 

He turned and walked away effortlessly, that staff in his hand guiding the way as the rest of the Ironworks team flooded in, gawking at everything and rallying around the crimson haired man that now walked among them. 

Biggs stood in awe, hardly believing his eyes, hardly believing that hope itself was awake and walked among them. Now, there was a chance to turn the tide. Even if he couldn't save the world for himself he would do his damnedest to save it for G'raha. For the others. He would give his all.


	2. 2

Ishgard was one of a handful of Bastions holding out against the all-devouring nothingness and the deranged Garlean Empire. It was the heart of what was left of Cid Nan Garlond's legacy, one of the only places in all of Eorzea largely untouched and unchanged: at least for the moment. 

First, G'raha had asked to be escorted to Gelmorra, where the remnants of Gridanian society had retreated and faded into obscurity. There, he knew there were records to be had. Unfortunately, they found that they cut off at a certain point not far from when the warrior of light had met G'raha himself. Frustrated, and unable to intrude on the Duskwights hospitality more than they might risk, Biggs finally convinced G'raha to come home with him-- or as close to it as he might. 

It was the closest thing to home he'd ever known, anyway. 

The Gates of Judgement hadn't changed in an age, though the Steps of Faith themselves were newer and perhaps not as grand as they were in the history books. G'raha had only seen the city from the outside before, and gazed up in awe at the armaments, and the reinforced fervor with which they had shored up their defenses. Proud and gleaming stood a statue of Ser Aymeric de Borel, the legendary Lord Commander that had seen the end of the church's reign or terror over the land. 

So many that he wished he could meet, so many things left unsaid and undone. He lingered there in the square, pulling his new cowl and its fur-lined hood in closer around him. The weight of his staff rather than that of his bow was familiar now, a comforting sensation that helped him sink into his thoughts. 

The Ironworks' plans had been laid out to him almost immediately. He thought it wild, their plans for time-travel. At first he doubted the ability to manage such a thing, but even the Allagans had managed to touch the stars. Could not the Tower do more than even that? While they traveled, G'raha had studied the documents that the original Biggs and Wedge had left behind about Alexander and Omega, seeing the daring feat that the men and women of the Ironworks had planned begin to unfold. The calculations were beyond him, but he had the Tower's full power at his disposal.

Though he needed the tomes that would guide him, just as he had known they would-- he would soon have to retire to the tower once more to truly begin to learn its limits and plumb the depths. That was all well and good: for now the future, currently his present, meant that he must instead look to those around him. 

G'raha Tia had been a lonely child, reserved and sequestered to solitude since he was born. At first, he didn't understand it. It had broken his heart in his youth. Being shunned by his tribe, his father making the executive decision to send him away-- it had all shaped him into someone who had had no choice but to love solitude. He found his friends, his hopes, his _dreams_ in books and academia instead. 

To suddenly be surrounded by people who adored him-- nearly worshiped him-- was jarring to say the least. 

He stood, a bit awkwardly, at the Skysteel Manufactory having been given the grand tour. Biggs and his adopted brother, a young Lalafell who had taken the name Wedge had talked and talked about their proud history-- about everything that G'raha had slept through. Now he stood as the larger of the two barked orders, finishing up for the day while the night crew prepared to work overtime to begin making the parts they needed for the first prototype of the planned machina they were calling the Tycoon. 

G'raha was a bit lost in himself. In these quiet moments it dawned on him that he had nowhere to go, nothing of his own-- was lost in this new world that looked very little like the Eorzea he had traveled to the far reaches of. Without the Ironworks' generosity, he would be lost. 

"Milord," Biggs' voice startled him from his gloom and he jolted, a zip of adrenaline causing his tail to turn into a bottlebrush. He flushed and turned his back to the wall, arms crossed. 

"How does a big bloke like you go around sneaking up on folk like that?" He demanded, pouting and trying to keep his composure. 

Biggs looked a bit flustered himself for a moment, and averted his gaze as though to give the other man some kind of privacy to collect himself.

"My apologies. I merely did not want to disturb you. Seems my attempt not to frighten you backfired. You can be an awfully jumpy creature." He teased gently. 

G'raha's face relaxed slightly and his pout became a warm smile. "See, you needn't be so overly polite with me. Really-- I'm one of your crew, that's all. My constitution doesn't take well to being treated as though I'm made of glass." The whir of machinery punctuated the silence between them as he leaned back to get a better look at the Roegadyn's face. 

"Thal's Balls you really don't get it, do ye?" He muttered, and scrubbed his hand back through his short hair as he was won't to do when struggling for words. 

"Get what?" G'raha asked, brows raised. 

"How precious you are. How any one of us would do anythin' for you." 

"Are you sure that's not just you, Biggs?" It was Wedge, calling out from where he sat atop a pile of books to reach the desk in the corner, grinning like a wolf. 

"Oi, you shut yer gob. It's none of yer business!" Biggs snapped, and the Lalafell burst into a fit of giggles. 

If the Roegadyn had had ears and a tail, they'd have drooped. 

G'raha gave him a sweet smile and reached out to pat him on the arm, trying to be comforting. It was... sweet. It was all so very sweet. He wasn't sure he'd ever experienced anything quite like it. He had pursued his own crushes before, had his own playful tumbles in bed as male Miqo'te of his persuasion were wont to do-- but never had he felt someone's eyes set on him before. Was that what was happening? Or was Biggs merely in love with the _idea_ of him he wondered. 

"Look, Sir-- _G'raha_, I was wonderin'-- now, ye don't have to. We can set you up at the Forgotten Knight with the nicest room we can get our hands on but uh. I was wonderin' if you wouldn't mind stayin' at my place? Just to get some good rest and relaxation. Some peace. I can promise that much at least." Biggs said, lowering his voice. 

Maybe it really _was_ a proposition. G'raha blinked at him, ruby eyes catching the light and gleaming as he cast his gaze askance, thinking it over. He really would, for once, rather not be alone. 

"I would love to, Biggs," He answered.

"You would? Oh, that's. Lovely. A relief." G'raha found himself laughing at that, at the sweet way the man wrung his hands. 

He couldn't get over how easy it would for someone like him to throw his weight around: to get anything he wanted by force, but he was gentle, soft as a summer rain. G'raha smiled up at him, his ears twitching to betray the warmth welling up in his chest. 

"Take me home. I could do with a good rest." He said softly. 

The place that Biggs called home was a small, neat apartment that had been in his family for some time, ever since Ishgard had risen to thrive once more after the end of the Dragonsong War. Most notable to G'raha from the beginning was the wall of books, and then some. He found himself perusing the collection from the start, hardly asking permission. 

"I have plenty-- browse all you like, G'raha. In the meantime, I'm going to fix us some grub. Gotta thank the Wedge of all those years ago for his fascination with kitchen implements. Dunno what drove the man." He announced, disappearing around a partition into what one could only assume was the kitchen.

He used the moment of privacy to rummage through the displaced volumes stacked on floors and tables. It seemed, he noted with some amusement, that they had similar habits in that sense. His heart jumped into his throat when he stumbled across a familiar tome. It wasn't as worn as the one that Biggs carried constantly on his person, but it was a copy of the same book he had noticed him reading over and over again. 

G'raha took it from the pile and sat on the overstuffed sofa, skimming the pages to find the tales of his own time with the Ironworks founder printed upon the page. He stopped half way through at the entry about himself-- and lingered on the overly flattering and dramatic portrait of his face painted there. 

Perhaps, if he had stared at it for a lifetime, he may have fallen in love too. 

"I prefer the other copy. They got your mouth all wrong," He startled slightly at the sound of Bigg's voice, again surprised at how quiet he was-- or maybe, G'raha was just lost in his own mind. 

He had with him a pair of bowls, steam rising from them as he sat them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. 

"I've got sweets too, for after. This is my ma's stew recipe. Learned it watching her as a wee thing." 

"Thank you, as always. I know not what I'd do without your generosity." G'raha said. 

"There's so much-- You could. You could do anything. If the world weren't endin'." 

"Aye..." With the mood dampened, they ate in silence. G'raha hadn't realized how hungry he had been, and wondered how long he'd gone without food-- did he even need it now? Had the Tower changed what he was entirely? If the grey hair slowly starting to appear mixed in with his crimson was anything to go by... well, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. Was he aging? Was it going to catch up to him sooner rather than later?

"We're gonna have this project done before y'know it, and we'll find a way to the First, and to a time when the Warrior of Light is still around. We'll change everything. We'll find him." Biggs said as he leaned back in his seat, the sofa shifting with him. 

While G'raha fell into his thoughts once more, Biggs retrieved the sweets he'd mentioned-- and it dawned on him that he hadn't had anything so decadent in nigh on a two hundred years. The sight of little cakes and sweet bread made him remember his sweet tooth. In the comfortable quiet, he nibbled at the sugary confections and finally said:

"What... was the real reason you brought me here? Tonight, I mean." 

"There's no ulterior motive! I just. I enjoy spendin' my time with you." 

Again G'raha fell silent, knowing that it was likely making the poor man nervous-- but he had to think of what he might say next. 

"I'm glad. I enjoy your company as well. Would that we could have met in better times. In gentler circumstances..." He said, Looking down at his hands. 

"Aye. I wish that. I wish that dearly." 

"That night you woke me from my long sleep..." G'raha trailed off. 

"Y-ye?" Biggs suddenly found it hard to swallow. 

"You kissed me. Didn't you." It wasn't a question. 

"I... G'raha I just, I..." 

"It's alright. I've been thinking about it." At that, Biggs went oddly quiet, watching G'raha as though he were afraid he might attack-- or run, or morph into some terrible shade. 

"I'd like it if you did it again. While I'm awake, this time. Preferably."

"O-oh. Right then." Biggs said and stared dumbly at the other man. 

"Maybe right now." G'raha coaxed further. 

"Of course," His voice cracked, and his palms were sweating. He hated that it was that much harder when he was awake. 

G'raha reached out and took Biggs' hand, though really it was more like gripping a few of his fingers, he was so much larger. With a soft sigh, he shifted up onto his knees, straining to reach up. 

With his trembling hands, Biggs pulled closer and cradled G'raha's shoulders as he leaned up and kissed him, softly at first-- and then with a little more force. 

"I told you; I am not made of glass." He whispered against the larger man's lips. 

Biggs let out a breath as though he'd finally been given permission to and finally returned the kiss. It was rough and messy, and G'raha tasted like sugar.

***

"Then run the test again. Different this time." Biggs demanded. He stood with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. 

"I'm sorry, chief. We've tried everything. There's just. There's no way any _living_ thing could survive temporal stasis." Wedge responded. The engineering team couldn't meet his eyes. 

For a moment, he paced in place, teeth gritted-- on the verge of rage. 

"There is... one thing." A woman piped up, her clip board clutched to her chest. 

"Jessie, no--" Wedge started. 

"Let her speak." Biggs stepped in. Wedge grimaced. 

"According to some tomestones we've decoded, the one who controls the tower well. He could, in binding his lifeforce to it become one with the tower. Syrcus Tower... it _can_ be moved using its own systems with this method. But well... he would be the only one capable of it. And... Well. There'd have to be a team to. Throw the switch. From the inside." She said, tone going dark at the end. 

"...I see." 

"If it is the only way, then it is the only way." He'd gone numb, his heart in his throat. So close. He'd found such joy, such companionship he had never known-- but the fate of the world: _of all worlds_ hung in the balance. 

"I'll present these findings. But you won't say a word about the rest. About what we have to do." 

"You _have_ to tell him." Wedge interjected. 

Biggs' expression took on a dark shadow and he, for a rare turn-- looked menacing. "No. I don't."


End file.
